At her name, the older Haun suddenly rose to their feet, their faces wary, and their dark eyes hopped tensely between Wynter and the young man.
‘How is your father?’ he whispered, leaning in. ‘Nice and comfortable, I am sure. Lauded as the warrior who rid the Southlands of the Haun threat. What do they call him? A hero like himself must have some wonderfully descriptive name. Moorehawke the Great, perhaps? Moorehawke the Undefeated? What about Moorehawke the Bloody? What about Moorehawke the Butcherer of Children?’
Without thinking, Wynter slapped the man’s face, and his head rocked sharply back. His friends rushed to his side, gabbling, and drew him away. He grinned as he went, his hand to his cheek, his eyes on Wynter. Christopher glowered after him, but Wynter turned away to hide her unexpected tears, trembling with shock and distress.
Next thing she knew, she was stumbling along, guided by Christopher’s firm hand on her elbow. ‘But what did he mean?’ she said. ‘What did he mean?’ She went to turn back, but Christopher tightened his grip and kept her moving forward, heading for the slope and Alberon’s tent. After another moment of mindlessly following, Wynter dug her heels in and jerked to a halt.
‘I must know!’ she cried.
Christopher held tight to her elbow and pulled her close, staring into her eyes. ‘It was a war, Iseult,’ he whispered. ‘Things happen during a war. That lad was on the losing side. He ain’t likely to write a sonnet lauding the winners’ good character now, is he?’
‘But he’s talking about my father! It’s not true! I can’t believe it!’
‘Lorcan was a soldier, lass! What did you think he did in battle? Throw buns at the enemy?’
‘Why would a child have been in battle, Christopher?’
He frowned at her in sympathetic confusion, and Wynter knew that he would never understand. Christopher came from a world where the inquisition threw babies onto their mothers’ execution pyres. He had been adopted by a race for whom the word ‘soldier’ meant only death and torment and pain. He was looking at her now across the chasm of their differences, and she had no doubt that he was thinking, Why would a child not have been in battle?
‘Iseult,’ he said gently, ‘whatever your questions may be, that man is not the one to give you your answers. He’s too full of hate.’ Christopher smiled at her and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘You don’t want to see your poor da through that fellow’s eyes, do you, lass?’
A cough behind them startled Wynter, and she realised with a jolt that she was standing in the main thoroughfare of the camp gazing into Christopher’s face as he murmured to her and stroked her hair. She stepped sharply backwards. The passing soldiers seemed to slide knowing glances at each other. The Combermen, lounging beneath their awning, seemed to eye her with leering contempt. At the head of the slope, Anthony was watching from the shadow of the Prince’s tent.
Her face burning, Wynter turned to face the man who had coughed.
‘Presbyter,’ she croaked, ‘how fare you?’
The priest was eyeing her with alarm. Are you mad? his face said. Have you no sense? His gaze flickered to the grip that Christopher had on Wynter’s arm, then up to meet the young man’s eyes. Christopher lifted his chin in defiance, and to Wynter’s surprise the priest’s face filled with pained sympathy.
‘Don’t be an arrogant fool, boy,’ he whispered. ‘You have nothing to give her but despair.’
At his gentle tone, Christopher’s defiance seemed to melt from him and, frowning uncertainly, he let Wynter go. The priest nodded. Up above them, Anthony turned and disappeared into Alberon’s tent.
‘I must tend my Lady Mary,’ said the priest and, bowing, he left them.
‘I . . .’ said Wynter, staring after him. ‘I must go talk to the Prince.’ Christopher nodded and made to accompany her up the slope. Wynter stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘I must talk to him alone, Christopher.’
Christopher’s cheeks flared red and he stepped back, his face stiff with embarrassment. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘He will not speak to me with you there,’ she explained softly.
He nodded, his eyes averted.
‘Will you wait for me?’
He nodded again. His determined silence was what made up her mind. After all Christopher’s quiet gestures of love – the sending of the scóns, the courtly bow, his gentle acceptance of her way of life – how could Wynter ever deny her feelings for him? How could she ever have considered denying them?
‘Chris?’
He glanced at her. When she stretched up to kiss him, he drew back in alarm, his eyes darting to the hill. ‘Don’t, lass,’ he said.
Wynter gripped his tunic at the chest and tugged him near. ‘You listen to me, Freeman Garron. I am telling you now, I love you.’
Christopher shook his head, doubt and concern visible in his clear grey eyes. ‘You don’t have to say that,’ he whispered.
‘I love you,’ she insisted, her face very close to his. ‘To court I shall always be the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke. To Razi and Alberon I shall always be Wyn – Razi’s baby, Albi’s little sis. These things are what I am, Christopher, and I am proud of them. But I am also your Iseult. You are the only man to whom I shall ever be thus, and I shall never let that go. We shall find our place,’ she promised. ‘I’m not yet certain how we shall find it, or where it will be, but wherever it is, we shall be together, Christopher; and whatever we are doing, it will not involve me sitting in a tent waiting for my menfolk to change the world.’
Christopher grinned at that, his wicked, lopsided grin, and, in clear view of the scandalised camp, Wynter kissed him, full and slow on the mouth. His hand found its way to her waist, and he made that delicious mmmm sound in his throat that always weakened her knees.
‘Wait for me here?’ she whispered.
He nodded, smiling, and with one last solemn kiss Wynter parted from him and made her way up the hill to Alberon’s tent.
MACHINES AND MACHINATIONS
ALBERON WAS waiting grimly in the shelter of the awning. The sun was hard on his angry young face, and bright as fire in the pale spikes of his choppy hair. The breeze had risen and it snapped the awning over his head, shivering its way through the tent at his back and snatching at his red wool cloak. Wynter felt its early-morning chill and wished for her own cloak. Her sword hung heavy at her waist. The slope reminded her of how weary she was.
‘Your Highness,’ she said, coming to a halt in the cold sunshine. ‘May we talk?’
Alberon’s eyes flickered briefly to Christopher, who was still standing at the foot of the hill, then back to Wynter. ‘Get in,’ he hissed, and she ducked past his guards into the dimness and relative warmth of his empty tent. Alberon strode after her.
The little servant peered around the door, his face red, his eyes wide. Wynter was certain that he had run, like a good little courtier, and told the Royal Prince that the Protector Lady was making love to an untitled savage right in the main street of the camp. She grimaced at him, and his little face twisted in miserable embarrassment.
Alberon stood in the centre of the tent and glared. ‘What in God’s name are you up to, Wynter?’
Wynter smiled gently. ‘Christopher Garron is not what I came here to discuss, your Highness. Perhaps we can talk on that another time?’
‘Whatever you believed you could get away with on the trail, Protector Lady, your conduct here lays the foundation for your very future. I already have my work cut out trying to restore your reputation, and I shall not have the court saying you’ve opened your legs for a God-cursed thief and a Merron savage!’
Alberon’s unexpected crudeness took Wynter completely by surprise. She felt her face flare scarlet, and she was speechless for a moment with shock. ‘Alberon,’ she said eventually, ‘don’t—’
‘I’m no goddamn puritan, Wynter. But you cannot afford to dandle your scrap of rough pleasure on the highway for all to see.’
Cold rage swelled to replace Wynter’s embarrass
ment, and she lowered her chin, her face hardening. ‘I’ll ask you to watch your tongue,’ she whispered. ‘No man has a right to speak to me in that fashion, not even a royal prince. Christopher Garron is my intended, Alberon. My da loved him; I have no doubt he would have approved our match. Razi approves our match. Our attachment is a fait accompli, your Highness, and I am afraid that you have no say in the matter.’
Alberon’s eyes flew open in a sudden rush of horror and disbelief. ‘A match?’ he cried. ‘For godsake, Wyn, the man has nothing! He’s a bloody gypsy! He will ruin you! Do you really want to spend the rest of your life living in a ditch?’
He clutched his head at the thought, and Wynter’s anger was blown away with the understanding that Alberon was utterly terrified for her. She opened her mouth, and he threw his hand up to silence her.
‘Don’t,’ he cried. ‘Don’t give me Lorcan’s old shit about making your own way in the world! You are not a child, Wynter. You will be sixteen years old at the end of the month and you have nothing. Your father has raised you on delusions. He should have spent his time securing a future for you, instead of indulging those damn games of make-believe! Carpenter indeed! Who the hell is ever going to hire you? You are a woman. Even if you ever do secure work, can you see yourself climbing the scaffolds with your belly full of that vagabond’s pups?’
The word pups was such an unfortunate choice that Wynter couldn’t help but smile. Cubs might be a touch more accurate, she thought, but she refrained from articulating the comment. Bad enough that Alberon considered Christopher a gypsy. What colour would he turn if Wynter revealed the rather more dangerous aspect of her young man’s nature?
‘What are you grinning for?’ cried Alberon.
She shrugged, her smile widening, and he ran his hands through his hair, staring at her in disbelief. Her smiling silence seemed to calm him down a little and he began to pace, his brow creased in thought.
‘Anyone can make a mistake,’ he muttered. ‘Women have recovered from much worse. Mind you, usually women with far greater prospects than yours. Still, a sizeable dowry can be arranged . . .’
‘Albi,’ she said.
‘Of course you’ve no damned land. No annuity of your own. No God-cursed family connections. But you are not unattractive, and you are still relatively young . . .’
‘Albi.’
‘Your friendship with us might stand to you. If there is no issue from this dalliance and the men here can be persuaded to keep their mouths shut.’ He glared out the door. ‘He can be paid off . . .’
‘Goddamn it, Alberon! That is enough!’
He came to a halt, staring belligerently at her, and she sighed.
‘Albi,’ said Wynter gently. ‘I trust Christopher Garron. I love him. And he loves me. Would you deny me that, Albi? In this terrible bloody world, would you deny me that?’
The little servant was blatantly eavesdropping now, standing out in the open, his face rapt. She and Alberon were better than a play, it seemed, and he had quite forgot himself in their dramatics. His round eyes brimmed with the tragic wonder of Wynter’s speech, and he clasped his hands at his chest.
‘Oh,’ he whispered, ‘that’s righteous lovely.’
Alberon turned to him, and the little fellow froze like a rabbit under torchlight. ‘Boy?’ grated Alberon. ‘Have you nothing to do with yourself other than act the old maid?’
The poor child stared with panic-stricken eyes, and Wynter took pity on him. ‘I should very much like some breakfast, Anthony. Would there be anything available to eat or drink?’
‘Wouldst . . . wouldst like some gruel, Protector Lady? I can get thee—’ ‘You can get thee bloody out,’ yelled Alberon, swiping the air in mock threat. Anthony squeaked and fled, and Alberon strode in his wake, yelling after his retreating back, ‘Get some God-cursed tea while you’re at it!’
There was a distant little ‘aye Highness’.
Alberon stood at the head of the slope, glaring downwards. Wynter had no doubt that he was looking at Christopher, who undoubtedly was staring right back. She sighed and waited patiently while her brother had himself a good look at the man she had chosen as her own. She briefly considered introducing them properly and letting them talk, but there were many things she wanted to discuss with Alberon. Wynter did not think that it would be conducive to open conversation were the two men to commence the prowling that would be their inevitable reaction to each other. No. Introductions could wait.
‘Well,’ murmured the Prince, ‘I suppose a marriage, no matter how ill-advised, is one solution to your hopelessly slandered reputation. Should the worst come to the worst, as it inevitably will with a fellow such as him, we can always wed you off again as a dowered widow.’
‘Alberon,’ she hissed.
He did not turn around.
‘Alberon!’ she insisted.
He tilted his head, which was as far as she suspected he would go towards looking her way.
‘There will be no widowhood in my future, brother. No matter how much my husband sullies the landscape of your plans for me.’
Alberon shrugged. ‘Court life is a danger to us all,’ he said. ‘Nothing lasts forever.’
‘You had better make sure my husband lasts forever, Alberon Kingsson. Crown Prince or not, you will play no courtly games with Christopher Garron’s life. If he so much as stumbles and bruises his knees, I shall . . .’
Footsteps crunched up the dry slope and Wynter snapped to furious silence, certain that Oliver was about to beg access to the Prince. God curse him! Of all the damned times to interrupt. Right at that moment, Wynter did not think that she could face the knight without losing her now hopelessly tenuous self-control.
But it was only Alberon’s lieutenant, and he came to attention with a smart salute, waiting for permission to approach. Alberon waved him at ease and gestured him to speak.
‘Sir Oliver has taken watch with the pickets, your Highness. He sends word from the tree line.’
‘What news?’ asked Alberon.
‘No sign of the supplies, your Highness. It being two days now, and considering what the Lord Razi witnessed by the ford, Sir Oliver is of the belief that the provisioners might have been taken.’
Alberon sighed. ‘It is more than possible. The valleys are crawling with the King’s soldiers. If Sir Oliver is right, and those poor men have been taken, it will only be a matter of time before they crack and tell my father where we are . . . I’m afraid we may have to move again, Marcel, and soon.’
The lieutenant nodded gravely and gazed out across the camp. ‘No need for the men to know it yet, though, Highness. T’would only rattle them.’
‘Aye. In any case, we must await these last envoys. We certainly cannot up stakes till they are here. There is no sign of them, I suppose?’
Wynter saw the lieutenant’s face crease in momentary distaste. ‘No, your Highness,’ he said coldly. ‘No sign.’
Alberon sighed again and dismissed the man. He watched as the lieutenant walked away, then he drew his cloak around him and stood staring pensively out across the trees. His thoughts seemed utterly diverted from Christopher, and Wynter glowered at him – torn between needing to discuss the desperate politics of their situation and the desire to settle the subject of her future once and for all.
At the back of the tent, something stirred and a thin whine drew Wynter’s attention. With another grim look at the Prince, she crossed to see what it was. On the trunk that acted as Alberon’s bedside table, Marguerite Shirken’s papers rested, their seals as yet unbroken. Wynter glanced suspiciously at them; then she drew the insect-netting aside and looked behind it for the source of the noise.
It was Coriolanus, hidden in his nest of blanket at the foot of the neat cot. The poor creature seemed in the grip of a bad dream, and he mewed hoarsely in his sleep, his little teeth flashing.
Wynter crouched by the bed. ‘Cori,’ she whispered, reaching to stroke him. ‘Cori . . . wake up.’
The cat
hissed and lashed out, and Wynter withdrew with a cry, her hand scored with four shallow gashes. She cursed vehemently. ‘Cori!’ she snapped. ‘Wake up!’
His eyes flew open and he lay on his back, staring at her, his small white forepaws held to his bony chest. ‘Cat-servant,’ he rasped.
‘You scratched me.’
He looked at the blood she was sucking from the back of her hand and frowned, rolling to his side. ‘I . . . I was dreaming of my dear mother. The soldiers-who-kill had come again. I was too sick and my mother . . . my mother drew them away. But,’ he squeezed his beautiful eyes shut, ‘but in my dream they came again,’ he whispered. ‘Reaching.’
‘It was only me,’ said Wynter, moved by the poor creature’s obvious distress. ‘I was only going to pet you.’
‘Ahrrrrrr,’ he huffed, flustered. ‘Humans. Always touching. Always grabbing!’ He slid a look at her. ‘Though I am sure I can bring myself to tolerate it if you must lift me.’
Wynter gathered him to her, a fragile collection of brittle warmth, and cradled him like a baby. ‘Your mother still lives, you know,’ she whispered gently. ‘An orange cat told me so. GreyMother hides somewhere in the castle with the last of the kittens.’
Coriolanus didn’t react to this, except to rub his head against her caressing fingers and gaze into nothing. ‘A flame-coloured cat,’ he murmured, ‘with a heart full of hatred?’
‘How did you know?’
‘SimonSmoke’s tenth daughter, the only flame-coloured cat of her litter. She has no human-given name. She rages against you all now, brave thing. She and her litter-mates were the last of the Palace-born. GreyMother carried them down into the woods, where they live like foxes.’ He sighed. ‘I am surprised she spoke even to you, cat-servant. She must have considered you instrumental.’
‘I think she did. She wanted Razi to learn about the Bloody Machine. I think she thought the discovery would undo the King.’
Coriolanus huffed sleepily. ‘She was wrong. It is the machines’ suppression that has undone him.’ His eyes were growing heavy. ‘You have grown very like your father,’ he murmured. ‘With your fur and eyes, you would both have made handsome cats, had you not been unlucky enough to have been born otherwise.’
The Rebel Prince Page 14